


A storm in a den

by itslxipark



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, Assassin's Creed: Rogue, F/M, Female Reader, Haytham being a smug bastard, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, assassin reader, its so short oh god, most likely shitty, will update tags as I go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24370999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itslxipark/pseuds/itslxipark
Summary: It started with him talking. It always started with that smooth voice that stirred the storm.And it started in the Wolf's Den.
Relationships: Haytham Kenway/Reader
Kudos: 13





	A storm in a den

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fic I ever published online o-o
> 
> I'm so sorry it's so short but please enjoy!!!  
> (and so sorry to male readers but this is for the lasses out there. maybe i'll write m!reader sometime in the future

“I assure you,” she retorted, an unimpressed eyebrow raised. “I wouldn’t be the only one to fall.”  
  
The fire crackled in the fireplace beside them, almost merrily; the only interruption for that night. The windows were closed shut, keeping the whirling storm out of their little makeshift world of theirs. For that night. She could feel the searing heat of the blaze on the side of her breeches (much like the intense indignation she had harboured in her), even through the thick fabric of her clothes. _Warm, warm, warm, too warm_ \- it was spreading to her back where she could feel individual drops of perspiration sliding down her skin. It spread to her nape where she could feel the perspiration cooling and the smallest blow of wind was enough to make her shiver. Speaking of shivers, his gaze was intense. Making it an internal battle for her, struggling to meet his eye without feeling intimidated and beneath him. Her eyes darted to his hand, dexterous fingers drumming against the whiskey tumbler. Hands that could end her life in a blink of an eye. Hands that had ended many others.  
  
There was silence- until he broke it with a short chuckle. Her eyes snapped back up. Trying to match his sharp, icy stare. Grey- cold like the icy storm outside, harsh like the biting winds that was enough to tear skin. He raised the glass to his lip, taking a sip. Eyes followed each of his movements. Wary and tense. Tension coiling like springs in her limbs; ready to strike, ready to lash out. Much contrary to her, he seemed relax. His sword and pistol stayed abandoned on the large desk behind him. His cloak and shoulder cloak hung on his chair.  
  
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” God, his voice. Baritone. And that posh Londoner’s accent that was hardly ever heard in the colonies. Laced with a tinge of amusement, slight sneer. As if teasing and taunting. She knew she wouldn’t possibly be able to take him down. He knew that too, that smug bastard. There was a quirk of lips, a small smirk gracing his features. As much as she refused to admit it, deep down, a small voice told her the very truth.  
  
She was in the wolf’s den; trespassing. And she was the prey.


End file.
